#annayyh

His stomach is in knots as he remembers that he’s on the phone with someone. “Fuck. Yeah. I’m on my way.”

Bellamy speeds to the hospital. It’s a miracle that he doesn’t get pulled over, given that it’s 1:20 on a Wednesday morning. His stomach is in knots and his heart is in his throat. Clarke was working late at the gallery tonight, and he tried to stay up, but he has work in the morning and needed his sleep.

He bursts through the doors and it’s like a gust of wind opened them for him. Bellamy practically throws himself onto the desk, demanding for Clarke’s name and the nurse looks alarmed for a moment. “Clarke Griffin, I-I got a call,” he starts, and the nurse rapidly looks through her computer.

“Room 208, up the elevator and towards the left.”

And then Bellamy’s moving quickly again, and thank Christ there aren’t many people around because he’d be knocking everyone over. He taps his foot in the elevator, and wrings his hands. He’s fucking scared. His wife is in the damn hospital and he can’t remember what the last thing he said to her was. Was it that he loved her? Or have fun at work? Was it a joke? He doesn’t remember.

He hears her before he sees her. “For God’s sake, I’m fine, will you stop?”

“Clarke!” Bellamy busts through the door and she turns, her body relaxing. His eyes rake over her body, looking for any injury, any indication as to what the hell happened to her. She is absolutely covered in blood.

“Bell,” she says, and she reaches towards him. Bellamy doesn’t hesitate to find her hand, going to stand right behind her. “He’s my husband,” she hisses, when the doctors start to protest.

He looks down at her, at the blood splattered on the front of her shirt, on her face. “What,” he starts, swallowing thickly, the lump in his throat making a reappearance. “What the hell happened? You’re covered in blood, what the fuck?”

“Okay, it’s not my blood, calm down,” Clarke snaps, leaning back to rest against his chest. Bellamy swallows again, still staring intently at his wife’s shirt.

Then, he splutters. “Not,” he can’t process it, “not your blood?”

“It was just a little accident,” she murmurs, her eyes closing, and he only realizes then how tired she looks. “It’s the other driver’s blood. He’s okay, now. That’s what they said. Something sliced his arm open a bit and it bled onto me. Wasn’t my fault,” she continues, and the doctors leave the room to give them a moment.

Bellamy deflates, relief coursing through him. She’s okay. It’s not her blood. It wasn’t her fault. “Scared the hell out of me,” he mumbles, turning her so he can see her face. “Why haven’t they wiped this off yet?”

“They wanted to check me out first,” Clarke replies, leaning forward and resting her forehead onto his sternum. “I’m okay. Just a broken wrist.”

Bellamy presses kiss after kiss onto her head, his hands gripping at her hips tightly. “Thank God,” he murmurs, “I’m glad it’s not your blood.”